


Expectations

by romantic_drift



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fanart & Fanfic Collab, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female My Unit | Byleth, Gen, Pre-Canon, Protect the Eisners at all Costs, people suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantic_drift/pseuds/romantic_drift
Summary: Jeralt convinces Byleth to have a drink with their fellow mercenaries. It doesn't go well.
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally created for FE3H's [Guardian zine](https://twitter.com/GuardianFE3H) (a zine dedicated to families). The fantastic Kumo collaborated with me on it, and created this beautiful [illustration](https://twitter.com/roget_k/status/1268773468457193472/photo/1), which perfectly captures the scene as I had envisioned it. Go give them some love.

Byleth wiped off the last droplets of blood, and tilted the blade up to the oil lamp’s warm light. A clear, if distorted, reflection of herself stared back at her. She nodded, and slid it back into its sheath—just as a voice boomed outside her door. 

“Byleth!” Jeralt said.

The smile was bright on his customarily stoic face when she swung the door open. “Just in time!” He tilted his head towards the stairs. “Ready?” Even several flights of stairs up, Byleth had no trouble making out the din from the tavern.

It was early for revelry; the sky outside her window was still dyed the orange-purple of dusk rather than the black of the night. But the battle today had been hard-won. Flying monsters had descended on them from the forest canopy, and Byleth and Jeralt had only just managed to stop them from swallowing whole the cargo. And the merchants. And their fellow mercenaries, almost uniformly warriors and grapplers. 

Byleth blinked at her father. “We haven’t been invited,” she pointed out.

His smile widened. “Well, we’ve haven’t joined them before either.” He wrapped a careful, calloused hand around her bare forearm. “We’re likely to be with this group for at least until Wyvern Moon. There’s no harm in getting a little friendlier.”

Byleth wanted to ask her why exactly she’d need to get friendlier with them, when it was Jeralt that negotiated the details of their jobs.

But Jeralt was looking at her, hopeful. Not demanding anything of her, really, but—

She sighed. 

He laughed. “Who knows, maybe you’ll even enjoy yourself,” he teased. His hand squeezed her arm, and they made their way downstairs. 

  
  


The noise cut out the moment Byleth and Jeralt stepped foot into the inn’s tavern. 

The silence was so complete that if Byleth hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought some dark mage had cast _Slence_ over the crowd of swaying, red-faced men. 

Jeralt’s expression was mulish as they made their way to an empty corner table.

When they’d settled down, Jeralt said, too loudly, “You’d think mercenaries would have enough guts to speak openly.”

His pronouncement—didn’t break the silence exactly, so much as it siphoned it off slowly. In its wake came low murmurs, pitched a little too low for Byleth or Jeralt to make out the words.

Jeralt’s face got more pinched. 

It made Byleth frown too. Because his mood had been so good, when they were walking down the stairs, but now it wasn’t. 

“It’s okay?” Byleth tried. 

She meant it. The attention isn’t comfortable, exactly. Her neck prickled in a way that her fighter’s senses knew meant she was being watched; though when she looked over in the direction of the anonymous gazes, none of the vaguely-familiar looking men looked back at her. 

But she wasn’t irritated by the hidden whispers and stares, either; not the way Jeralt seemed to. After all, she didn’t know them. And it wasn’t as if _she_ was offering them friendly smiles.

“I’m sorry, Byleth. Maybe we should go back up,” Jeralt said, his mood not easing at all.

She bit her lips—and alighted upon an idea. “A drink?” she offered, her eyes were already scanning for a server boy. A drink always lifted her father’s mood. 

Ah, there. The teenager, standing in the shadows. She waved him over. 

The boy came slowly towards them. He was twisting the rag in his hands, so tightly his knuckles went white. Must be new, Byleth thought. 

“W-what would you like?” he stuttered, when he finally reached them. 

Byleth had no food and drink preferences, but Jeralt had plenty. She turned towards him, the sword at her waist clinking against her wooden table—

The boy flinched and dropped his rag.

“Sorry!” he gasped. His freckled skin so pale it was almost translucent. He fumbled at the floor. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—”

Byleth looked at him. His shoulders were shaking—

Ah. 

_Ah._

Her stomach squeezed. Byleth wondered what tales of the Ashen Demon he’d heard today, how many came from the nearby tables

“Get up,” Jeralt snapped. “Two jugs of the house ale.” 

The boy re-captured his rag and fled back to the bar.

“I should’ve let those birds peck their eyes out,” Jeralt said viciously. He glowered at the surrounding men—who seemed to have taken the incident as their chance to openly stare.

She thinned her lips, and then made herself shrug. “I suppose I hadn’t fought like that until today, with these men,” she said. Her eyes tracked the boy, who was sneaking nervous looks at her as he poured more beer onto the counter than into glasses—she turned away, back to Jeralt.

His face flitted between expressions, so rapidly she couldn’t decipher any of them. Not that she has ever been particularly good at reading people; but, she didn’t struggle with her father, typically.

“Byleth.” Jeralt’s face was—calm? Was that the right word? His mouth was a straight line, his eyes fixed on her. “I wish—” he said, and stopped.

“Do you want us to leave this job and go elsewhere?” Jeralt asked instead. 

“I… No?” she ventured. She looked at him curiously. “Why? Do you think we should?” 

“So you don’t mind staying?” He pressed.

She thought about it for a moment longer, then shook her head. 

“No, it doesn’t matter to me where we go,” she said.

She got the distinct impression there was something wrong about her answer, the way his shoulders slumped. She just didn’t know why. 

The innkeeper, not the serving boy, brought their beers. The moment the innkeeper dropped the jugs onto their table, Jeralt picked one up and drained it in one swallow. 

He gave her a smile so small his lips barely curved. She didn’t know why he was smiling.

“I wish,” he said, and broke off again. “I hope,” he corrected, “that there will be a time when you do.”

Byleth couldn’t imagine why she ever would. She was fine with the way things were, with Jeralt making these sorts of decisions. But Jeralt cared, for some reason, and Byleth didn’t like to disappoint her father if she could help it.

She hummed noncommittally.


End file.
